


May These Hands Heal the Rift Between Us

by TheSleepiestDreamer



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Jaskier | Dandelion, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First fic please be gentle with me, M/M, Multi, Nilfgaard, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Probably excessive italics and commas, Slow Burn, Winter At Kaer Morhen, mostly because the author writes at the speed of slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26611879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSleepiestDreamer/pseuds/TheSleepiestDreamer
Summary: Jaskier keeps bumping into injured Witchers while trying to mend his own broken heart. Geralt has conflicting feelings over seeing the signs of Jaskier's care on his family. Years after the mountain, the ever encroaching threat of Nilfgaard forces them back together and the heavy snows of winter at Kaer Morhen keep them that way.Maybe, just maybe, they can mend the friendship that was broken.(Maybe they can build something new together.)
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion & Vesemir, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 147
Kudos: 723





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to the story that would not stop hounding my mind! I hope you enjoy it, please leave a comment if you do! This is my first ever fanfic, so I apologize in advance for any egregious mistakes I will likely make. 
> 
> This story is not currently beta read, but if one of you kindly folk could point me in the direction of beta readers, it would very much be appreciated <3

He doesn’t mean to make a habit of it. Really. And it’s not that he minds either, not at all actually. 

It’s just that it keeps happening.

It starts a few months after that dreaded mountain. After he made his way stumbling blindly down the trail, unable to see more than a few steps ahead of him for all the tears in his eyes he refused to weep. After making his way back to Roach, that beautiful, cantankerous horse that had finally, after so many years of bribes and sweet words, allowed him to pat her gently and comb her mane. She had greeted him with a soft snort and a gentle shove of her head into his chest, snuffling at his pockets for the treats he kept there. Knowing that it would be the last time he would be able to, the last time that he would ever see her, he emptied his pockets of all the sugar cubes and flowers he had, scratched her between the ears the way she loved most, and numbly removed his things from her packs, careful not to leave anything behind. No reminders that he existed, no evidence that he had ever travelled with her owner.

And then he left. 

Despite what his appearance may suggest, Jaskier was completely capable of surviving on the road alone. He had done it for months before meeting the Witcher and throughout their frien- _acquaintanceship_ whenever their paths took them separate ways. And so he made his way back across the continent only stopping in towns that he knew Geralt had already passed through that year and would be unlikely to revisit.

It was on the road between such towns that it started. The day had been grey and miserable, raining on and off in unpredictable patterns, and Jaskier was desperately hoping to make it to the next village before the skies decided to open and _stay_ open, finding his patience to have been worn thin by the erratic weather, the low quantity of food in his pack, and the general moroseness that had been hanging about him for the past month. So caught up in his longing for a warm bed and inner grumblings is he ( _and really now, he’s beginning to act like a certain grumpy Witcher who will not be named_ ) that Jaskier is quite badly startled when he comes around a bend in the road and sees a figure collapsed on the ground next to what looks to be the body of a slain griffin. And if he had been startled by that sight, the sight of two swords, achingly familiar, next to the figure is shocking enough that it feels as if his heart has stopped beating. 

But while his heart may have stopped, Jaskier's body seems to move on its own, rushing up to the fallen Witcher and carefully examining him for the injuries he _knows_ must be there. Witchers don’t just collapse like that, they _don’t_. 

He realises rather quickly, somewhat to his relief, that this Witcher is not the one he has spent so many years trailing after. The biggest giveaway is his dark hair, so very _very_ different to the spun moonlight hair of his past companion, and then the slightly more colorful armor he’s outfitted in. Said armor is just about shredded to pieces across the man’s right shoulder and has done a piss-poor job at protecting the vulnerable skin underneath. Jaskier wastes no time cutting away what remains of the armor blocking him from accessing the wound underneath with the dagger he keeps hidden in his boot before reaching into his own pack for the bottle of fairly good vodka he’s purchased two towns back and the stash of potions he keeps in there.

He had learned how to make potions from watching Geralt throughout the years, perfected the craft over several winters spent in the stillrooms of whichever noble house had welcomed him for the season, and had started brewing and maintaining a stock of the most useful ones in case Geralt ever ran out and needed them. The potions, never Jaskier. That had been made quite clear.

He uses an old chemise of his that had quite unfortunately torn during a rather enthusiastic performance he had put on several months ago to wipe away the truly alarming amount of blood oozing from the Witcher’s back before examining the gashes. They were terribly deep, would have been deadly on a human, and surprisingly clean cuts- easy enough to stitch up once he managed to remove any dirt or other nastiness from the griffin’s talons and slow the bleeding. 

He gently lifts the Witcher’s eyelid, checking to see if his eyes have gone black from consuming too many potions and is relieved to see that they are white around the amber iris, and that he is free to tip Kiss into the Witcher’s mouth without worry of increasing his blood’s toxicity to a dangerous level. 

The potion works almost immediately, stemming the flow of blood from the Witcher’s body and allowing Jaskier to clean the wounds and prepare a sterile needle and thread without fear of the Witcher bleeding out while he works. 

It takes a long time to stitch the man back together, the cuts on his back are long- stretching from shoulder almost all the way down to the small of his back, and Jaskier takes care to make sure his stitches are small and neat, that the scar that will inevitably be left behind is as small and smooth as possible. He has done this many times for Geralt, and though he had not imagined he would ever be tending to an injured Witcher again, he is somewhat gratified that the skills he has learned will not go to waste, that he can at least do _this_ right. 

He wipes the mended skin down with the last of his vodka to ensure that no pesky infection tries to worm its way into the Witcher, douses his hands with the water he has in his pack, then goes about setting up camp where they are. It’s not ideal, with the sky on the verge of dropping yet more rain on them, but Jaskier is not a strong enough man to carry a Witcher with both swords and his pack all the way to the village several hours up the road, and so they will have to make due here. As he goes about collecting wood for a fire he finds a horse some ways away from where the Witcher and griffin lay, a large, black stallion that by the contents of the saddlebags he carries must belong to the Witcher. This horse is immediately friendlier than Roach had been when Jaskier first met her, letting the bard lead him back to his master with nary a nip or kick to his person, which is almost startling. 

It’s hours later after Jaskier has successfully built a fire, set up camp, and even managed to catch a few small hares to roast that the Witcher finally rouses from his unconscious state with a low groan of pain. Knowing that his presence is immediately sensed, Jaskier forgoes any attempts at calmly alerting the man to the fact that he is there and sets about keeping the Witcher from undoing any of his hard work. 

“Lie still lest you rip your stitches, it took long enough the first time and I’m not eager to repeat the process if it can be prevented.” 

The Witcher turns his head slowly towards Jaskier, amber eyes guarded and assessing the brightly-clothed man in front of him. Jaskier huffs, rolling his eyes. He’s had enough scrutiny from Geralt to last a lifetime and isn’t looking for any more from this Witcher.

“You’re welcome, by the way. I know you Witchers tend to be lacking in both manners and words, so I shall assume your thanks and assure you that I expect nothing in return.” This gets him a raised brow from the Witcher, and what could be a small smile tugging at his lips, though the scars that span the side of his face make it difficult to tell.

“We’re not all taciturn, and I do thank you for your help…” here the Witcher pauses, clearly waiting for Jaskier to supply him with his name. Jaksier hesitates, he does not wish to earn the ire of another Witcher on the chance that this one has also taken issue with Jaskier’s songs the way that Geralt had, but he knows that Witchers can smell lies from miles away and so it will do him no good to give a fake name. 

“Jaskier,” he finally supplies after the Witcher’s other eyebrow has risen to match it’s brother.

There’s a flash of recognition in those bright eyes, but the Witcher does not give any further indication that he has heard of Jaskier, perhaps he can smell the nervousness that has risen in Jaskier’s chest. Instead he nods and offers his own name. 

“Eskel, of the School of the Wolf. I’d shake your hand but I get the feeling you’d chew my ear off if I tried to get up.” This is said with what is now definitely a small smile on Eskel’s lips and Jaskier nearly gapes at the slightly teasing tone he uses. A Witcher, _teasing_ someone they just met. Suddenly Jaskier is uncertain which of them was injured and suffered blood loss because he feels that he surely must be hallucinating. 

As if trying to further confuse Jaskier’s sense of reality, Eskel continues to be verbose.

“Thank you again, truly. Most would not be as kind as you to stop and help an injured Witcher. Hell, most would probably take it as an opportunity to finish us off and claim they’d slain a Witcher.” 

Jaskier feels thoroughly off-kilter at the genuine gratitude and _kindness_ he hears in Eskel’s voice.

“Yes, well, that is to say that I am not most people and I appreciate the work that you and your brothers do.” This earns him a knowing smile from Eskel, who, being from the Wolf School, must have heard at least _something_ about Jaskier from Geralt. And yet he does not mention his brother, just requests water from his pack. 

Jaskier takes a moment to examine the stitches on Eskel’s back as the Witcher takes careful, slow sips from his waterskin. Truly, whatever mutagens Witchers were given work wonders as the skin on Eskel’s back has already begun to knit itself back together. It’s somewhat slower than when Geralt’s body heals itself, Jaskier notes, as Geralt would be almost completely healed after a full dose of Kiss and several hours rest. Eskel looks as though he will need at least another few hours, if not a full day to be fully healed. 

Jaskier helps him to sit up, and begins the process of roasting the hares over the fire both so that they may have something to eat and to keep his hands busy. Eskel continues to be surprisingly good company, regaling Jaskier with not only the story of his unfortunate encounter with the griffin, but with several highlights of his years on the Path. All in all, they spend a rather pleasant evening together and the weather grants mercy on them, deciding not to soak them after all. 

The next morning, while they are breaking camp and packing their bags, Eskel clears his throat to get Jaskier’s attention. 

“I, ah, ran into a mutual friend of ours some weeks back,” he says with a significant look at Jaskier, letting him know _exactly_ who the Witcher was referring to, “thought it strange that he was traveling alone this time of year.” 

Jaskier looks away from Eskel’s burning gaze, overwhelmed for a moment by the emotions that thinking of Geralt dredge up. Eskel does not mean to be cruel, this Jaskier knows, but it is still a rather sore topic for him and he’d _really_ rather not go into it if he can.

So he nods, meeting Eskel’s eyes again and gives the weak response, “We, uh, decided not to travel together anymore. Seems we had different understandings of what our companionship was.” 

Eskel, bless the man, does not prod further. He merely nods, claps a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, and finishes packing, all while the words that had torn Jaskier asunder swirl in his mind. 

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Grad school has been keeping me very busy lately, but hopefully I'll be able to get the next chapter up sooner. 
> 
> Please let me know if there are any heinous spelling or grammar errors! 
> 
> I hope you like it <3

The next time it happens, it's with Vesemir. 

It’s been a little over a year since he patched up Eskel and Jaskier has, by another unfortunate stroke of fate, ended up in the foothills of the Blue Mountains. He did not mean to stray so close to the home of the Wolf Witchers, but his wanderings had already been taking him north throughout the summer and the unrest in the south with rumors of Nilfgaardian invasion had made him wary of traveling that direction.

And so here he is. In Kaedwen, right as a rock troll goes berserk. 

It had been lurking in the woods that surrounded a sizable town on the banks of the Gwenllech for weeks, lashing out at unsuspecting travelers who were lucky to escape the encounter with the beast bruised and battered, some with broken bones. 

The unlucky ones didn’t make it out of the forest. 

Eventually there are too many unlucky ones, and the alderman finally decides to post a contract for the troll. Jaskier’s not entirely certain how word makes it way up the river and into the mountains to Kaer Morhen, all he knows is that it did, and that the Witcher who responds makes it there just in the knick of time if you ask him.

The knick of time of course being right as he’s about to be bludgeoned to death by the small boulders masquerading as the troll’s fists.

You see, Jaskier had ventured out into the woods with the intention of using his silver tongue to persuade the troll to leave. He knew from his time spent traveling with Geralt that not all monsters were truly monstrous- that some, like this rock troll, could be reasoned with. He had learned that lesson during their very first adventure together with the Slyvan and the Elves, and again during a particularly troublesome hunt some years later. 

A contract had been posted for a werewolf that had been feasting on the town’s livestock every full moon for several cycles, and the townspeople had grown agitated and wary, afraid of the day when the beast would find them more appetizing than sheep and goats. To Jaskier it had seemed very cut and dry- the werewolf posed a threat to the people and their livelihoods and so it should be dealt with. But Geralt had, metaphorically, smelled something rotten and had set about questioning damn near everyone in the town about any gossip or drama that he could- cheating spouses, tenants not paying their dues, payoffs of any sort, long lasting grudges. When questioned about it, Geralt had explained that there were two kinds of werewolves- those who were born with the condition and could control themselves and those who were cursed and would shift and become feral during the full moon, prisoners to their instincts, but who could also be cured. The evidence pointed to the later in this case, and so the goal wasn’t to kill a fearsome beast, but to help the poor soul who had been cursed and then to scare the daylights out of whomever had been so cruel to their fellow man.

As Geralt had predicted, the werewolf turned out to be a young man who was the bastard child of a seamstress and the husband of the town’s healer, who had not taken her husband’s dalliances lightly and saw it fit to punish the child and his mother. It had taken the Witcher several painstaking days to concoct the cure for the poor boy, and then a rather more enjoyable hour towering over the healer making vague threats before the matter was solved. The townsfolk, however, had not felt the same and had refused to pay saying that the terms of the contract had not been fulfilled and were on the verge of forming a mob when Geralt nodded his head and led Jaskier out of the town, eager to put distance between them before things came to blows. Jaskier had known that Geralt was a far kinder and gentler soul than he let on, but seeing the lengths that the Witcher would go to in order to save an innocent soul had made his heart squeeze in his chest and his affections grow deeper. 

Enough of that, back to what is promising to be a very painful death. 

Jaskier is well and truly fucked this time, ankle snared in the underbrush, troll looming overhead with fists raised and ready to turn him into bard jelly. Jaskier can’t even reach his lute case to try to shield himself from the blows and is both cursing and praying to every god when a blur moves between him and the troll.

For a moment, he can’t breathe, not because he’d winded himself in the fall, but because the figure that has slammed into the troll is carrying two distinct swords and has silver hair tied up in a familiar style. 

For a moment, he thinks  _ Geralt _ has come to save him. 

But then the Witcher makes the sign for Quen, shielding himself and Jaskier from the onslaught of blows and Jaskier gets a better look at his saviour.

The wider build, the shorter stature, how he’s not dressed head to toe in black. Grey hair, not the silver-white locks he’s come to associate with safety. So no, not Geralt- not that it really matters in this moment, Jaskier’s just glad that  _ any _ Witcher showed up at all.

The troll retreats a few meters after pounding unsuccessfully at the magical shield and begins to fling rocks and chunks of earth at them instead. Not that it works, the projectiles hit the shield and bounce off in random directions all while Jaskier and his saviour remain safe inside. This carries on for several minutes before the Witcher glances behind himself and addresses Jaskier. 

“Shield will break soon. Run when it does.” It’s said in a gruff voice and with a tone that demands obedience, no room for rebuttals. Jaskier, though not typically one for blindly following orders, nods his head with a quick “yes sir!” and finally manages to extract his foot from where it's been trapped and get his feet beneath him. 

A particularly large mass of earth crashes against the barrier, breaking it, and is sent back at the troll with even more force than it was thrown, pummelling its body and giving Jaskier and the Witcher both opportunity to move. The Witcher goes dashing towards the troll, silver blade drawn, side-stepping out of the way as more rocks are lobbed at him. Jaskier takes off in the opposite direction, trying his best to put some distance between himself and the fight that he cannot contribute to and finds a sturdy tree to hide in. He can’t recall if Geralt ever told him that this particular beast can climb, but given it’s stooped form and considerable weight he doesn’t think it’s likely. 

From his perch, Jaskier’s view of the fight is mostly blocked by leaves, and so he has to rely on the sounds alone to gauge its progress. There are grunts and snarls from both the troll and the Witcher, the odd twang of a silver sword connecting with the rocks that cover the troll’s back, crashes as more heaps of dirt and rock are thrown, a vociferous swear from the Witcher as one of the troll’s attacks presumably lands, a piercing squeal followed by silence. 

And then, “You still there lad?”

Jaskier clamores down from his hiding spot and trots back over to the Witcher, who has removed the creature’s head and is wiping his sword off on its soft underbelly. Who has a branch sticking through his gut and is looking particularly grumpy about it, though not panicking the way that Jaskier would be if he’d been speared through his midsection. In fact, the Witcher seems to be looking over  _ Jaskier _ for injuries, which besides his ankle feeling rather sore and some small scrapes on his hands from when he caught himself during his fall there are none. 

“You alright there?” The Witcher asks, and though Jaskier appreciates his concern he is really rather more worried about the  _ branch that is skewering the man in front of him _ . 

“Nevermind me!  _ You’re _ the one who’s been turned into a Witcher kebab!” Jaskier squawks, gesturing to the wound. The Witcher looks rather surprised at this, as though he either hadn’t noticed the injury or didn’t expect Jaskier to care. Sheathing his sword, he merely gives a low hum and turns to go gather his horse from where it had run to during the fight.

A heavy sigh draws Jaskier’s eye from the body of the troll back to the Witcher, who is standing next to his horse, potions bag turned upside down, with a pile of broken glass and a small steaming puddle at his feet. A stray rock must have hit it sometime during the battle and shattered the bottles within. Jaskier had dropped his own bags when he fell, but a quick look tells him that everything is intact, including his own collection of potions and mending supplies. 

“Excuse me? Master Witcher? I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but might I offer you one of my own potions? I traveled with a Witcher for quite some time and haven’t been able to shake the habit of keeping a few with me at all times.” This earns him a sharp look from the Witcher, who seems to be reassessing him from his earlier scrutiny before giving him a slow nod.

“You may offer it, but I may decline to take it.” 

With that permission Jaskier fishes a bottle of Swallow from his bag and a bottle of the strongest alcohol he has and offers them to his saviour. The Witcher uncorks the potion, takes a careful sniff before nodding approvingly and downing the whole thing. Then, with another heavy sigh, he wraps a hand around the portion of the branch protruding from his front and yanks the whole thing out with a grunt and a sickening squelch. 

Which is apparently all he feels is necessary to do to tend to the wound before turning back to his horse and retacking his empty bag. 

“Oh no. No no no no no. I don’t think so! Even with a full dose of Swallow that will be bleeding for hours! And you need to clean it!” Jaskier sputters, utterly indignant that even this more seasoned Witcher takes such poor care of himself. Shouldn’t he be wizened? Have enough sense and wits about him to know that his body needs more care?

He only receives a raised brow and yet another assessing look from this outburst and Jaskier tilts his head to the heavens and prays to any god for strength. 

_ Witchers _ . Honestly. 

“At least let me close the wound, you did earn it from protecting me after all.” Jaskier offers before peering at the Witcher’s medallion. Another wolf. Given the wrinkled visage and air of authority, Jaskier is willing to bet that this is the mentor Eskel told him about, the oldest remaining Wolf Witcher and closest thing he and Geralt have to a father. Eskel had made out to be reasonable, at least when compared to Geralt, so it shouldn’t be  _ impossible _ to convince him to let Jaskier treat him. 

“I’ve tended to Eskel and Geralt before, I’m rather skilled at putting Witchers back together.” Jaskier adds with what he hopes is a convincing smile. He  _ is _ rather good at patching up Witchers, but he’s not quite sure how the old Wolf is going to take the news that his pupils have been letting a human help them at their most vulnerable.

He’s fully expecting to be brushed off and is preparing another tirade when the Wolf huffs a breath of laughter and says, “Thought you might be that bard. Alright then lad, do what you will.” 

He lifts his arms in permission, allowing Jaskier to step into his space and get a better look at the hole in his middle. It’s rather gruesome, and Jaskier is once again astonished by Witcher pain tolerance.  _ He  _ would be on the ground gasping in pain, but the grizzled Witcher doesn’t even flinch as Jaskier begins cleaning the wound. 

Muscle memory and experience guide his hands, freeing Jaskier’s mind to other pursuits. Either Eskel or Geralt, possibly even both, has mentioned him to the other Witchers. He has a reputation, a seemingly favorable one at that, among the Witchers despite any and all shit-shoveling he may be responsible for. So that’s good, right? No need to worry about running into any Wolf Witchers and meeting the business end of their sword. Not that he was worried before, from what he has gleaned from Eskel and Geralt, Witchers are mostly bark and very little bite when it comes to actually hurting humans. Perhaps then this older Witcher may be open to sharing a few stories with him the way Eskel had, though he doesn’t seem to be quite as friendly. Still, a Witcher who has naturally gone grey must have been around for  _ centuries _ at the very least and has likely seen more things than Jaskier can hope to imagine. What a fountain of inspiration he may be for a humble bard!

Jaskier gathers his courage, and with as casual a tone as he can manage asks, “Might you be Master Vesemir, sword tutor extraordinaire and Head of the School of the Wolf?” 

The Witcher, who had been keeping a careful eye on Jaskier’s hands as he worked, raises his gaze to meet the bard’s.

“Aye, that’s me. Though I don’t know if I can be called ‘ _ extraordinaire’ _ if I can’t beat the pups’ sloppy form out of them.” Jaskier is a little dumbfounded at this. Geralt is the best swordsman he’s ever seen, easily capable of beating anyone who would challenge him. To call him  _ sloppy _ indicates that this Witcher is even better, which is truly astonishing to think about.

“Yes, well- I was wondering if you would mind terribly telling me about some of your hunts? I don’t mean to pry, but I’m certain you have the most astounding tales to tell and I’d rather not earn your ire chatting your ear off while I work.” This earns him a small, wry smile, and yes, Geralt has most definitely complained about him to his tutor; Eskel seemed to enjoy Jaskier’s ramblings if the smile on his face had been anything to go by. 

“Just one, bard. It better not end up a song.” Jaskier grins, and moves to begin stitching the front of Vesemir’s wound closed as Vesemir sighs before launching into a rather amusing tale from his early days on the Path.

When he’s done, Jaskier earns a pat on his shoulder for his efforts, and finds himself once again grinning at having earned some measure of approval from Vesemir. He’s not expecting anything else, perhaps a “farewell” as they part was, so he’s rather surprised when Vesemir speaks again.

“You have my thanks bard, for this and for aiding my sons. Kindness is not a gift often bestowed to Witchers while on the Path, I am gratified that they have been given yours so freely. Should you find yourself in peril again, know that you may call on the Witchers of Kaer Morhen.” 

With that, Vesemir retrieves the troll’s head to collect the bounty, mounts his horse, and gives Jaskier a final nod before setting off towards the town. 

Jaskier, mouth possibly hanging agape, watches until he can no longer see the Witcher. Who apparently very much approves of him and is even somewhat concerned about his safety. The thought loosens some of the old knots in his chest, and he turns down the road, humming the beginnings of a song about a fierce old wolf with a tender heart. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient with me. Things have been terribly hectic between grad school and in my personal life and I had trouble finding time to write. I won't be able to post until after the semester ends in a few weeks but I should be able to post more regularly during the break between semesters. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this next chapter! Please let me know if there are any spelling errors or if anything else is terribly wrong.
> 
> <3 <3 <3

Lambert finds him next. Jaskier has just finished a rather impressive performance in a rather unimpressive tavern in northern Temeria, and has found himself a rather cozy table tucked next to the hearth to settle at and eat his hard earned meal. He’s about to tuck into his food when the chair opposite his scrapes across the floor and he looks up to meet unfamiliar amber eyes. 

“Tell me bard, you the one who writes those godsawful songs about Witchers and got the great White Wolf’s knickers in a twist?” He asks with a quirk of a brow and a sly smirk that suggests he knows  _ exactly _ who Jaskier is and is hoping to rile him up. 

A quick glance confirms that this is yet another wolf Witcher, and that somehow Eskel and Vesemir took all the brains and manners for themselves and left the other rather unpleasant qualities to the remaining Wolves. He’s bumped into Eskel another two times since his encounter with Vesemir and the rock troll, and each time has been a delight. Truly, if life had been kinder, Eskel would have made an excellent bard with the way he tells stories and can coax laughter out of Jaskier, one any court would have been lucky to have. But alas, life is cruel and not every Witcher can be as good company as Eskel or Vesemir. 

“Only if they have made your purse heavier and your days brighter.” Jaskier responds with as much cheer as he can muster. Sure, this Witcher is looking to piss him off, but from what Eskel has told him Lambert, and this must be Lambert, last of the Wolf School, is a fair bit like a porcupine- all prickly defensiveness hiding a soft underside. Jaskier is not looking to be a pincushion tonight, raised as his spirits may be from his performance, so he’ll bite back any quips that may temp his tongue and be as sickeningly sweet and polite as he can be. 

Lambert seems surprised to not have received some sort of snark or rebuttal if the slight slip of his smirk and the quick blinks he takes are any indication. And then, quick as it left, the cocky visage is back as the Witcher leans back in his chair and puts his feet up on the table right next to Jaskier’s food. 

“Can’t say I’ve enjoyed hearing that coin song in damn near every tavern I walk into, it’s a fuckin’ earworm if there ever was one. At least there haven’t been any new ones about Geralt in a few years, though I’m not sure the one about the old man can be considered an improvement.”

Jaskier does his best not to bristle at this,  _ Unyielding Guardian  _ is a  _ good _ song, one he’s quite proud of, and it makes him happy to sing it unlike a fair few of his older songs regarding a different Witcher. He still sings them, because nothing brings in coin quite like the tales of the White Wolf, but there’s always an ache in his chest when he does, and he always feels a bit rubbed raw when he’s done. He’s only written one new song about his old travel companion since they parted ways and he’s kept it close to his chest, only singing when he’s certain he’s alone and the terrible raw feeling inside needs a way out lest it begin to fester and rot. 

“Perhaps then a song about  _ you _ is in order?” 

“ _ Well _ , if you’re going to sing shitty songs about Geralt and Vesemir, the very  _ least _ you could do is sing a shitty song about a Witcher who’s worth his salt.” Lambert says, smirk stretching into a feral grin.

A patron who has perhaps imbibed a bit too heavily of the tavern’s wares picks that moment to make his way across the room to their table and make his displeasure at a Witcher’s presence in his town known, nevermind the fact there’s a contract posted in the town square for a kikimore queen and her soldiers that have started nesting in the swamps nearby. 

Jaskier is doing his token best to calm the man down and dissuade him from further insulting Lambert when the fool decides to  _ spit on the Witcher’s face _ and is promptly hauled up against the nearest wall by his collar. The tavern goes silent and Jaskier begins to worry because this is  _ not good _ but Lambert merely shakes the man and snarls “You’d be wise to refrain from such behavior in the future if you’d like to keep your manhood intact, you louse,” before dropping him on the ground like a sack of bricks and storming out of the tavern, muttering curses and insults as he goes. 

It takes a while for the tense atmosphere to disperse, and Jaskier finds that his good mood has been thoroughly soured. Still, he has a hot meal to eat and very little idea on how to console this newest Witcher, he doubts that Lambert would welcome his efforts if he did try, so he settles back down at his table to eat and think and try to recover some of his previous cheer. 

He’s just finishing his meal when a conversation a few tables away catches his ear and makes his heart start to pound in his chest. 

“...bet we’d be able to take it down, once it’s gotten rid of the other monsters of course.”

Oh no. No no no. Witchers may have superhuman strength and reflexes, some magic, and the ability to drink vile concoctions that would kill a normal human to boot, but they’re not infallible. They can be killed,  _ have  _ been killed by humans before when enough of them get together and overwhelm the monster hunters. And it seems that these ungrateful cretins are looking to do the same to Lambert. 

As carefully and casually as he can, Jaskier listens to the rest of their conversation, trying to pick up on the details of their plan, and makes his way out of the tavern and into cool night air. 

He needs to warn Lambert. 

He has no idea where Lambert has skulked off to. 

_ Shit. _

He has two options: spend hours searching every inn and the surrounding woods for the wayward Witcher without any guarantee of actually finding him,  _ or  _ he could wake up before the sun and make his way to the swamps where he knows for certain Lambert will be and risk death by kikimore. 

Only one option guarantees that Lambert will hear his warning, and so with a deep sigh and worry knotting in his chest Jaskier returns to his rented room, resolving to wake early and find Lambert in the morning. 

  
  
  


Jaskier had bemoaned his hatred of swamps countless times to Geralt during their travels. In his humble opinion, there’s not one redeeming quality about them: the soft, wet earth that slides under one’s boot and threatens to suck it in, the ever-present fog and damp air that smells like decay, the layer of scum that rests atop the water and obscures what lays hiding in its depths. Not to mention the sheer number of foul creatures that have decided that they make lovely homes. So stumbling his way through one in the early dawn light puts him in a rather nasty mood to start.

_ Then _ he’s nearly suffocated by the thick mud the moment he reaches the kimimore nest as Lambert is flung by one of the creatures into him and they are both sent sprawling and he is pushed into the earth by the Witcher’s considerable weight. Lambert recovers faster than Jaskier, is back on his feet and jumps back into battle before Jaskier is able to get his wits about him. 

By the time Jaskier manages to extricate himself from the mud, Lambert has killed all but the queen and finishes her off with an impressive and frightening combination of Aard and bombs that Jaskier has rarely seen Geralt use during hunts. 

The silence following the queen’s dying screech doesn’t last long, Lambert whirling around with a snarl on his face and eyes gone black from potions.

“Damn it bard! No wonder Geralt got rid of you if all you do is sing bad songs and nearly get yourself killed!” He spits at Jaskier, advancing on the man until they’re nearly chest to chest. “Do me the same favor and fucking  _ get lost! _ ” 

“All I wanted was to warn you that there is an ambush potentially waiting for you back in town,” Jaskier says, swallowing around the lump forming in his throat, “I was trying to help.”

He knows that he was never more than a nuisance to Geralt, that what he had thought to have been his closest friendship was an entirely one-sided affair, but it still hurts to be reminded how little he meant to the Witcher. Of how useless he has always been. 

Whatever Lambert’s reply might have been is cut off when a crossbow bolt goes whizzing past their heads into the trees beyond them. Immediately, the Witcher whirls around, sword raised and eyes scouring the tree line for signs of their attacker. It’s terribly still for a moment, and then a barrage of bolts and arrows comes flying from the trees and Jaskier is once more pushed into the mud by Lambert’s dense body landing on top of him. The Witcher lets out a low growl and some quickly muttered curses before hauling Jaskier to his feet and pushing him in the direction opposite of their attackers. 

“Run!” He barks at Jaskier, giving him another shove to get him moving in the desired direction before stooping to grab Jaskier’s bag from where it is slowly being devoured by the mud and following after him. 

Jaskier’s not sure how long they’ve been running or where they are in relation to the town when they finally stumble into a cave hidden from view by low-hanging branches and vines. This, if the packs against the walls and the remnants of a fire near the mouth are anything to go by, is where Lambert has been staying. Jaskier never would have found him had he decided to go searching last night. He turns to the Witcher to crack some joke about wolves and caves and the words fall dead on his lips as he takes in the truly alarming amount of blood covering him.

There are several bolts sticking out of the Witcher’s chest and legs, one just above his elbow, and more lodged in his back that Jaskier somehow didn’t notice during their mad dash and finds as he frantically flutters about trying to figure out what the full extent of the damage is. If it weren’t such a dreadful situation he might make a quip about how the Witcher now truly resembles the porcupine he’s been compared to, as it is his focus is firmly on how best to go about removing all the projectiles without causing Lambert to bleed out. 

Seemingly having had enough of Jaskier’s fretting, Lambert brushes the bard away and heads towards his packs. Or, at least he  _ tries _ to, but his legs tremble beneath him and Jaskier is just able to catch him under the arms before he crashes to the ground and sits him down as gently as he can. Lambert, the stubborn bastard, tries to brush him off but Jaskier is not having any of it. It’s likely the great buffoon caught at least a few of those bolts with his body so they wouldn’t pierce Jaskier’s, if the notable trend toward gallantry and self-sacrifice he’s seen in the other Wolf Witchers holds true for this one. 

“Oh no you don’t, let me help you infuriating lummox!” He admonishes when Lambert makes yet another feeble attempt towards his things, growling at Jaskier when the bard is easily able to shove him back down. That, paired the truly extraordinary amount of blood covering and flowing from the Witcher, causes the direness of the situation to fully settle in Jaskier’s mind and he quickly scrambles over to where Lambert dropped his bag, dumping its contents on the ground so he can get to his healing kit faster. 

When he looks back at Lambert, the Witcher’s eyes have slipped shut and he’s breathing too slowly and shallowly for even a Witcher. With some curses and prayers, Jaskier launches into the task of carefully removing all the bolts from Lambert’s body, pouring Kiss into every puncture and hoping that a more direct delivery of the potion will staunch the outpouring of blood faster than if he’d spilled it down Lambert’s throat. It seems that one of the archers had been quite lucky and managed to pierce one of the arteries in the Witcher’s leg, the bolt had been both the cause of most of the blood loss and had also acted as a sort of stopper, keeping him from bleeding out immediately. 

Jaskier wonders, not for the first time, if it would not be better to let some men fall prey to the monsters that Geralt and his family are hired to hunt. If it would rid the world of a greater evil. 

  
  
  


It’s nearly two days later when Lambert finally wakes up. Jaskier has been carefully pouring small doses of Kiss and Swallow and even a little White Raffard's Decoction just to be sure that the bleeding has stopped and Lambert is truly healing and not just in a coma. He’d also managed to pry Lambert from his armor so he might rest more comfortably and done his best to clean it and patch the holes in it. He’s been trying his best not to worry, reminding himself that much like Eskel and Vesemir, this Witcher will take longer to heal than Geralt. But it’s hard not to panic when Lambert hasn’t even  _ twitched _ , the only movement the slow and steady rising and falling of his chest as he breathes. He only notices that the Witcher has woken because of how intently he’s been staring at him, sees that his breath comes a little faster, his eyes open the smallest bit before shutting again. 

“Guess I’m not dead. Or this is a really shitty afterlife.”

Despite the insult, Jaskier feels a smile stretching across his lips as relief finally allows him to relax and slump against the wall behind him.

“No, not dead. Though if you were then I would quite obviously be an angel sent to welcome you with song and cheer, it’s hurtful that you would think otherwise.” This earns him a snort as Lambert rolls onto his side before slowly sitting up. When he meets Jaskier’s gaze, he gives a small nod and Jaskier knows that’s as close to a ‘thank you’ he’s going to get from the man. 

“Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going to sleep for the next week. Wake me up if your life needs saving again.” Another snort and another nod as he settles down on his bedroll. Lambert takes up his sword and whetstone and Jaskier falls asleep to the familiar, rhythmic sound as Lambert sharpens his sword. 

  
  


The sun has set by the time he wakes, and Lambert has apparently gone hunting if the venison roasting over the fire is any indication. He shuffles closer, not quite a part of the waking world yet and watches the flames in silence. Across the fire, Lambert’s leg is bouncing and he can’t seem to decide if he wants to cross his arms or not. He glances at Jaskier, his to have his gaze dart away when Jaskier tries to meet it. Perhaps if he’s been more awake Jaskier would have tried to set Lambert at ease, or offer some sort of opening for him to express whatever is eating at his nerves, but as it is he can barely keep his eyes from drooping shut and is rather startled when Lambert lets out a loud huff and says, “You didn’t have to, you know, do that. I, uh, would have been fine. Without your warning.”

Jaskier blinks at him for a moment before he realizes what is happening. 

“True as that may be, I was still worried. I know you lot are hardy and damn near impossible for us mere humans to kill, but I wanted to make sure you were safe.” 

“I don’t need your protection. And now they’ll be after you too.”

“Not the first time a town has turned against me for caring about a Witcher, certainly won’t be the last.” Jaskier says with a shrug. Lambert doesn’t seem to know what to say in response, and so they go back to staring at the fire. 

The silence lasts as they eat, and though he is perfectly capable of sitting quietly for many more hours a question has been nagging at him for a while.

“You could have killed them. Those men.” He knows this to be true, it’s not the question he’s been wondering at but Lambert seems to understand his implication anyway. 

“Coulda, woulda, shoulda,” Lambert grumbles, “but Vesemir doesn’t want another Blaviken to deal with and I’d get an earful from him _and_ Eskel about how they’re ‘ _disappointed,_ _not angry’_ or whatever, and Aiden would-”

“Aiden? I didn’t realize there was another Wolf roaming around.”

“Aiden’s a Cat, not a Wolf.” 

“I didn’t know the schools were friendly with each other.”

“They’re not. Not really. Witchers aren’t supposed to have friends.”

“And yet you do.” Lambert frowns, and Jaskier decides to move on to a different topic, eager to learn what he can about his new companion. 

  
  
  


They end up traveling together for a few weeks, both heading west for a while before heading their separate ways. It’s a fair bit like it was traveling with Geralt at the beginning, the hesitancy to talk, the confusion when faced with kindness, but Lambert is loud and brash where Geralt was quiet and thoughtful and after time seems more willing to accept Jaskier’s friendship than Geralt ever was. They part ways with laughter and playful insults, and Jaskier feels lighter than he has in weeks. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends! I fear that I have no reasoning for how long this chapter took other than that it felt like it was fighting me every step of the way. Thank you, as always for your patience with me and for reading 💕
> 
> The lovely Locktea has started beta reading for me! I cannot thank her enough for her help making my ramblings into a coherent story.

Jaskier is not as much of an idiot as Geralt believed him to be. Sure, he could be rather foolish sometimes, but that did not make him a _fool_. 

This, however, may be the most idiotic thing he’s ever done. 

Bravest too, but idiotic nonetheless. 

You see, Jaskier has been slowly but surely making his way across the Continent toward Cintra in the year since the Dragon Hunt. Nilfgaard has steadily become more than just a threat looming on the horizon, and despite what faith Jaskier has held for Geralt’s noble heart to lead the Witcher in the right direction, the fear that his Child Surprise would be left to suffer at the hands of the White Flame had lodged so deeply in his chest that he had to do _something_. 

Well, something more than visit her every year for her name day and sing her songs and tell her tales and act as a confidant as he has for the past twelve years.

But, as it turns out, armies tend to move rather quickly when they’re looking to conquer a kingdom, and they do so without much forewarning. 

So Jaskier doesn’t manage to make it to Cintra before it falls or before the mages defend Sodden Hill. He _does_ make it to the former lion’s den in time to see Nilfgaardian soldiers returning from Sodden dragging lines of captives in behind them with hands in shackles. 

Sees _Yennefer_ among them, looking far, far worse than he’s ever seen her, than he ever could have imagined her looking. Something had to be wrong. Yennefer, with all her pomposity, would never allow herself to be shackled by or to anyone. It was why she and Geralt had blown up so spectacularly. 

He’d managed to sneak into the city by donning a rather cunning disguise as a rather ordinary man. There were droves of men entering the city from the homesteads that had been trampled under the foot of Nilfgaard and recruited into their ranks in varying degrees of willingness. It was easy enough to slip in among them and look exhausted from travel given that he was indeed exhausted from his travels.

A soldier was directing troops new and old alike on where to go, but in the mass of bodies Jaskier had no issue slipping into the group that was setting up their things across the square from the captives. 

The crack of a whip and the scream from the unfortunate man on the receiving end cuts through the air, leaving a moment of silence in its wake before the rabble returns. Despite the commotion going on around them, the captives have been surrounded by a semicircle of guards who are keeping a watchful eye on those who stray too close to their quarry. 

He’ll have to wait until nightfall, or for a break in the guards’ rotation to get to her… If she actually needs his help, and this isn’t some clever ruse that she’s concocted. Which is possible. 

No. Those cuffs. He’ll blend in to the crowd and bide his time. They had to slip up eventually.

  
  
  


Eventually turns out to be far longer than Jaskier had the patience to wait for. It’s been three days since he spotted Yennefer and the guard rotation has been both immaculate and utterly faultless, not one soldier has nodded off at their post, or gone to take a leak without first getting someone to cover their spot. Hells, Jaskier hasn’t even seen them so much as _talk_ to each other while on duty. He’s going to need a distraction. 

He’s far more used to _being_ the distraction than trying to set one up from afar. Whenever Geralt had needed something loud, flashy, and impossible to ignore Jaskier would step up to the task. He had gotten quite good at it before his presence was no longer wanted at Geralt’s side. Indeed, if it ever had been. The point is he knows exactly how loud, flashy, and impossible to ignore a distraction will need to be to even tempt the guards away from their prisoners long enough for a rather dexterous bard to pick the locks on a certain sorceress’ locks. From there he imagines Yennefer will rain hellfire down on the Nilfgaardian troops and they’ll be able to stroll quite peacefully from the newly liberated city.

It goes nothing like he imagined. His distraction- a large group of resentful farmers who had lost their lands during the first wave of the invasion and were quite eager to introduce their fists to the soldiers’ faces- get things off to a rousing start by rioting quite marvelously in _exactly the wrong place_ . The guards aren’t lured away, in fact even more come pouring into the square when the commotion gets under way and Jaskier decides _fuck it_ and goes running into the fray. The guards are largely occupied with suppressing the farmers and he manages to make it all the way to the captives before a hand catches the back of his jerkin and he’s slammed to the ground. Pain lances through his head and skull where they’ve connected with the cobblestones and Jaskier lets out a weak groan as he is hauled up and flipped onto his front. The guard who grabbed him and is roughly forcing his arms behind his back when there’s a jangling of chains, a shout, a thud and a grunt, and the man slumps to the side off of Jaskier. He turns to see Yennefer standing shakily above him, having apparently struck the guard over his head with her shackles. Jaskier scrambles to his feet and steadies the sorceress before pulling his tools from inside his jacket and setting to work on the locks. 

The metal, when he touches it, seems to make his hands sting and looks to have left welts where it has been rubbing against Yennefer’s skin. Her hands are covered in painful looking blisters and the skin is a bright, painful pink. For all that seems to be strange with the metal, the locks themselves are rather simple and it only takes a few short moments before they open with a _click_ and a feral grin breaks out across Yennefer’s face. 

“I’ll take it from here, bardling.” It’s said with such malicious joy that Jaskier shudders, but steps to the side all the same as Yennefer lets loose a stream of flame so hot that Jaskier is fairly certain his eyebrows are singed, if not completely scorched from his face. He stares in a sort of terrified awe as soldiers are consumed in the blaze. A gentle hand on his elbow brings his attention back to the other hostages, and he sets to freeing them as well.

From there, it’s just a lot of chaos. 

There are bursts of several kinds of magic hurled at the Nilfgaardian soldiers, and Yennefer is continuing to turn those in her line of sight to ash. Between the rioting farmers and the newly freed mages, the guards are so thoroughly occupied that some of the other civilians feel comfortable enough to start looting the nearby shops. Jaskier manages to scrabble away from the worst of the havoc over to where some horses have been hitched and frees a pair, leading them closer to where he’d last seen Yennefer, and using all the best techniques he’s learned from having to soothe Roach on the rare occasion that she was left in his care. Or, he in hers as it was always stated. 

“Yennefer!” he calls into the madness, pulling the horses as close as he dares. Sure, things are working out in their favor at the moment, but he would really like to get as far away from Nilfgaard’s stronghold as soon as possible. 

He’s about to call out to the sorceress again when a split seems to form in the very air next to him, growing into a swirling gape that distorts the light that hits it. He takes a few steps back in fear of the desolation that this new magic might cause before there’s a sharp shove between his shoulder blades and he goes tripping forward.

“ _Go!_ ” Yennefer hisses in his ear and shoves him again in the direction of the magical circle she’s summoned. 

There’s a terrible twisting feeling as he stumbles through, and he’s fairly certain that the bread he had for breakfast is going to make an unwelcome reappearance with the way his stomach is churning. He breathes deeply through his nose for a few minutes, eyes squeezed shut, until the feeling passes and he’s confident he won’t blow chunks all over his shoes.

“What the fuck was _that?_ ”

He doesn’t recognize the clearing they have, apparently, portalled to. There are flowering trees all around that leave a sweet scent in the air, but are completely out of season for early autumn. A small burbling steam feeds into a pond full of clear, sparkling water. On the other side sits a small stone cottage with a cheerful red door. The tranquility here is a jarring contrast to the frenzied square they had been in moments ago, and it takes Jaskier a moment to realize that he is still holding onto the horses’ reins, that the horses were transported with him, and that Yennefer is slumped against one and starting to slide towards the ground. 

“Yennefer? Yennefer!” He rushes forward to catch the sorceress before she can collapse and feels his gut lurch when her head lolls to the side and he sees the blood streaming from her nose and ears, sees how pale she’s gone. A quick glance around reaffirms that the only structure to be seen is the cottage and his best bet of getting Yennefer the help that she needs will be inside. 

Carefully as he can he carries the limp woman inside, startling when the door swings open on its own. There’s no one to be found on the other side and Jaskier surmises that the cottage is either enchanted or haunted but finds that he doesn’t care which way it is so long as there are herbs inside he can use to stem the flow of blood. 

Inside is a rather small, if not exuberantly plush home. Most of the cottage seems to be taken up by the kitchen and living space, with only two doors leading off into other rooms. There’s a desk pushed into one corner that is nearly overflowing with sheets of parchment and bottles of things he can’t identify at first glance. An overstuffed chaise covered in seemingly endless pillows and throw blankets dominates the living space. There are shelves stuffed to the brim with books and trinkets that line the walls, and a large table bearing various trimmings sits in the kitchen. 

He hurries across to the couch, setting down the sorceress as gently as he can before rushing to examine every herb and bottle he can find. To his vast relief, there is a small amount of a human-safe healing potion, if the label is to be trusted, on the desk and he slowly pours the scant amount into her mouth, taking care that she doesn’t choke on it. The bleeding begins to slow before finally trickling to a stop and Jaskier feels like he can breathe again for the first time since they stepped through Yennefer’s portal. He wipes away the rest of the blood with one of the rags from the kitchen before turning his attention to her hands.

The welts around her wrists have shrunk, but the blisters on her hands have only gotten worse since the last time he saw them. Some have popped and are oozing a clear liquid while new ones seem to be forming before his eyes. It must have been the fire, he realizes, that caused them. Yennefer created magical flames so hot and strong that they burned her past the point that a potion could heal them. As for the welts, he’s not sure what was on those shackles that would have caused them but he’s willing to bet it was also magical in nature. 

There isn’t more healing potion to be found in the house, and he’s not even sure that it would work on Yennefer’s remaining wounds, so he sets about creating a salve for her hands and wrists, gently cleaning them with water from a well he finds behind the cottage before applying it and wrapping her hands in bandages. 

He’s done as much as he can for now, and the adrenaline that has been carrying him since the morning dawned is quickly dissipating, so he slumps down against the couch, grabbing a pillow from the plethora of cushions and a blanket from the end of the chaise and is asleep nearly before he’s finished swaddling himself. 

  
  


A tight grip on his shoulder yanks him from his dreams into a near state of panic before he realizes that the hand belongs to Yennefer and he is not about to be attacked. Or, he’s _probably_ not going to be attacked. 

“Get up bard. I won’t have you lying about and getting in my way. Either make yourself useful in the kitchen or go be an obstacle somewhere else.” He thinks she means for it to sound more harsh than it comes out, and perhaps it lost it’s bite from the weariness he can still see in the lines of her face, but Jaskier has seen Yennefer nearly die from trying to force a djinn to inhabit her body and be perfectly snide afterwards. Perhaps it’s a bit cocky of him, but he thinks it’s because she’s trying to be nice. Well, nice for Yennefer. 

He gets up with a groan, rolling his neck and trying to stretch out the aches that have settled in from sleeping in an inadvisable position. He manages to crack what feels like very nearly every vertebrae in his back before shuffling into the kitchen. 

There are piles of root vegetables and herbs on the table next to a knife and a pot, and it seems that ‘making himself useful’ means to make them something to eat. Which, fine, he _is_ rather hungry, but he’s also fairly certain that Yennefer could have magicked everything into pieces if she really wanted to. Then again she could also turn him into some unsightly creature, so he sets about his task with minimal grumbling. 

“So you do have some useful skills, here I thought you just strutted about and let Geralt do all the work.”

“I’ll have you know that I am _excellent_ at trapping game and am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. In fact, I managed to fend for myself for three days in a swamp while tending to a wounded Witcher.” Yennefer raises a skeptical brow at this but seems to take him at his word. 

They fall into an uncomfortable silence. Jaskier would normally have no qualms about filling it with idle chatter but things between Yennefer and himself have always been tense and moments away from becoming hostile. Now that he’s in what appears to be her home it’s probably in his best interest that he hold his tongue. 

“What brought you to Cintra?” The question startles him a bit, having assumed that Yennefer would appreciate the quiet. 

“I was there to check on the Child Surprise, maybe try to get her out of the city before Nilfgaard breached the walls,” he swallows around the lump that lodges itself in his throat every time he thinks about sweet Cirilla and the terrible fate that may have befallen her. Gods, he hopes she made it out in time.

“Geralt has you running errands for him now?”

“Ah, no. That is to say that he didn’t ask. Doesn’t know.” Another skeptical look. 

“I’ve been visiting her. Every year since she was born. Had to make sure nothing happened to her while Geralt was,” he waves his hand, gesturing to indicate the Witcher’s entire being, “off being Geralt.” Yennefer lets out a soft snort at this. 

“Off being a stubborn fool you mean.”

“Yes, I suppose I do. I hope he was able to pull his head out of his arse before it all went to hell. I know he didn’t want her but she needs him. Especially now.”

It falls quiet again between them, but less tense. Yennefer seems to be as far away in her thoughts as Jaskier is- thinking about a young princess and a Witcher with the heart of a prince. 

  
  
  


Jaskier stays at Yennefer’s cottage for another week. Each day he looks over her hands and wrists, checking to see if the potions and salves are working, and by the third day the marks are all but gone. She looks as impeccable as ever by then too, but puts up with his fussing with surprisingly good grace. They’re not quite friends when he leaves, too much of their personalities clash for them not to get on each other’s nerves and though they, rather haltingly, managed to talk about the disaster of the Dragon Hunt, the bad blood between them from years of competing for Geralt’s attentions has yet to fully wash away. Yennefer, in a moment of uncharacteristic concern, did shove a small metal box into his hands with instructions to only use it if he were to find himself in peril once more.

_One day_ , Jaskeir thinks sliding into the saddle of one of the horses, waving goodbye to Yennefer as he steers the gelding away from the cottage, _one day we might be friends_. 


End file.
